


What Are Friends For?

by Blondie54x



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs in a Car, I think this counts as PWP, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24305068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blondie54x/pseuds/Blondie54x
Summary: After rescuing Napoleon from the clutches of another Thrush female, Illya discovers Napoleon has a problem only he can help with.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 97





	What Are Friends For?

**Author's Note:**

> So, a couple of nights ago, I couldn’t sleep (damn this lockdown). Instead, I watched a late night movie on TV and a scene in it inspired this story. Apologies in advance, I have a weird imagination.

When Illya slid quietly through the door into the basement, his attention went immediately to his partner tied to a chair in the center of the room. The other occupant, a red haired woman in a white lab coat, had her back to him and without hesitation, but some satisfaction, Illya fired a dart into the woman’s neck. The hypodermic needle in her hand hit the floor a moment before she did.

Illya rushed over, angrily kicking the needle away before he bent to untie his partner. Once his hands were free, Napoleon rubbed over a tender spot on his forearm where his captor had stuck him with the needle. “Goddammit!”

Illya gently held his arm, studying the mark. Damn Thrush and their concoctions. “Are you okay to walk?”

Napoleon stood, stretching the kinks out of his back. “I don’t think walking is going to be the problem.”

Napoleon’s statement held true for the most part, but as they neared the spot where Illya had left the car, he began to slow and walk awkwardly. When Napoleon started to lag behind Illya turned to look at him and noticed Napoleon was limping. He stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I…” Napoleon shook his head. He waved a hand in the direction they were going. “Let’s just get to the car.”

They reached the car just as the heavens opened up and fat rain drops started to hammer down around them. Illya slid quickly into the driving seat, shaking droplets of rain from his hair, and turned to watch his partner’s slow, cautious slide into the passenger side. Napoleon grunted as he settled in, leaning forward, his arms guarding his groin.

Alarmed, Illya, said, “Napoleon, what’s wrong?”

Napoleon groaned and gestured to the problem, a large swelling in the front of his trousers. “The injection she gave me. It was a powerful stimulant.” He squeezed at the sizable erection and hissed. “It’s certainly a unique form of torture, I don’t mind telling you. This thing is killing me.”

Illya winced in sympathy. “Will you be alright till we get back?”

“No. It really hurts.” Napoleon shook his head. “I’m sorry, Illya, I’m going to have to take care of this or the car ride back is going to be a nightmare for me.”

“When you say ‘take care of’, you mean…?”

“Yes, I do,” Napoleon answered quickly, unbuckling his belt even as he spoke. “Just give me a couple of minutes. This won’t take long…”

Illya looked out the window at the torrential rain battering against the tarmac. In other circumstance he would have left the car to give Napoleon some privacy, but he had no intention of risking another bout of pneumonia. Instead, he turned his head away and though he could close his eyes to what Napoleon was doing, he couldn’t close his ears to the sounds coming from the seat beside him: the _zzzhhpp_ of Napoleon’s zipper sliding down; the slapping sound of flesh being rhythmically tugged; Napoleon’s harsh breathing; the creaking of the leather seat as his partner shifted around.

After a few minutes, Napoleon suddenly cursed. “Dammit!”

Reluctantly, Illya turned, being sure to keep his eyes at face level. “What’s wrong?”

Napoleon groaned. “It’s not enough. I need some… motivation.”

Illya felt a moment of disquiet. “Motivation?”

Napoleon gestured down at his groin. “Normally, this isn’t a problem. Heaven knows, I get enough practice. But this drug… I need extra stimulation.” Absently, he continued to palm his erection as he considered the problem. After a few moments of contemplation, he turned to Illya, a sheepish look on his face. “I need to ask you a favour.”

Illya narrowed his eyes, not liking where this was going. “What sort of favour?”

“Hear me out, first. I’m not asking you to _do_ anything. I’ll do all the work. You just have to…” Napoleon cleared his throat. “Just sit back and let me… “ His hand gestured towards Illya’s groin. “Give you a B.J.”

“What!?”

Napoleon rolled his eyes. “A blow job. It’s where someone takes your--”

“I know what a blow job is,” Illya replied, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “How does giving _me_ a blow job help _you_?”

Napoleon squirmed in his seat and Illya wasn’t sure if it was from the inconvenient erection or the subject of their current conversation.

Napoleon sighed, resigned to making an embarrassing confession. “Sometimes, when I’m having a… private moment… I find certain… fantasies… arousing.”

Illya’s eyebrows arched upward. “You have fantasies about performing fellatio on a man?”

Napoleon paused before answering, his lips pursed together. “Sure, let’s go with that.” He went on quickly. “Look, will you help me out or not?”

Illya was hesitant. He didn’t like to see his partner suffering, but this was hardly a life threatening situation. On the other hand, Napoleon was in pain and if Illya was in a position to relieve that pain, he would. In truth, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for his friend. Anything.

He rubbed at his forehead and sighed. “Will it take long?”

Napoleon visibly relaxed. “I don’t think so.”

Illya turned to stare out of the windscreen. Logically, the sooner they did this, the sooner they’d be on their way. He was tired and all he really wanted to do was get back to the hotel, take a shower and slip into a comfy bed. He nodded his assent. “Okay. If it helps.”

“Oh, it will.” Napoleon sighed with relief. “Thank you.”

Illya heard Napoleon shuffle closer and felt his hand start to work on his belt. He looked out the window to his left as Napoleon quickly slid down the zipper on his pants and his sweaty palm coaxed Illya’s cock free from his underwear. Illya squeezed his eyes shut as Napoleon’s tongue laved around the sensitive glans and his mouth opened wide to engulf the entire length, slowly sucking Illya’s cock into life. Illya’s body reflexively responded to the stimulus, diverting blood to his groin, expanding the flesh in Napoleon’s mouth.

No foreplay, no romance, nothing more than a means to an end. Illya clenched his teeth together and tried to relax his instinct to resist. Once, he’d had an inconvenient erection during a Thrush torture session when a leather strap had been tightened around his throat, cutting off his air supply. U.N.C.L.E.’s Psych doctor had assured him that this was a perfectly normal response to a fear situation. Since then, Illya had worked hard to control his body’s reactions to stimulus of any kind; sometimes it even worked. But this wasn’t torture, it was quite the opposite. It was annoying, but not really surprising, that this was yet another thing Napoleon excelled at.

He glanced down at Napoleon’s head bobbing up and down, and his arousal spiked. Napoleon was tugging at his own cock with his right hand while his mouth matched the rhythm as it worked up and down Illya’s shaft. Illya closed his eyes to the sight and concentrated on the sensation instead. Sometimes Napoleon’s tongue would curl around the hard flesh from the base to the tip before he took the entire length back in his mouth. Sometimes Napoleon swallowed so deep, his nose was buried in Illya’s pubic hair, and when Napoleon gulped, Illya felt his throat squeeze his cock in the most erotic way. Illya thought, ‘ _He’s done_ that _before.’_

It should come as no surprise. Napoleon had always been something of a sexual adventurer. ‘ _Variety is the spice of life_ ,’ he often told Illya, when Illya had _tsked_ in disapproval at some of his more salacious exploits. Napoleon never let societal norms dictate his lifestyle; it was one of the things Illya admired about him.

Illya let his hand rest on Napoleon’s head and the contact seemed to spur Napoleon on. He groaned and started to hum around Illya’s cock until the pleasure became unbearable, almost painful. Illya raised his other hand to press against the roof of the car in an attempt to keep himself anchored to his seat and to stop himself from thrusting into Napoleon’s mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his mouth closed, but couldn’t stop the keening sound coming from his throat.

It was too much. The pleasure was building and with it the familiar sensation of impending orgasm. He was going to come; he needed to warm Napoleon. His hand clenched tightly in Napoleon’s hair, intending to push him away. “Napoleon, stop,” he panted. “I’m going to…”

And then he did.

Illya experienced that brief loss of awareness - la petite mort, as the French called it – before the echo of his orgasm started to fade. Napoleon still suckled at Illya’s cock, which slowly started to deflate before it slid from Napoleon’s mouth. Napoleon’s breath, hot and moist, ghosted across the sensitive glans as Napoleon dipped down to drop a kiss on the top of Illya’s spent cock.

Napoleon sat up, beads of sweat on his face glittering in the moonlight, and leant back with a contented sigh.

Breaking the silence, Illya gestured vaguely in the direction of Napoleon’s groin. “Did you…?”

There was a hint of smugness in Napoleon’s reply. “Oh, yes. I did.” He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the evidence from his right hand. “Thanks for that.”

Illya smiled at the casual remark as he tucked himself back into his pants. “What are friends for in times of need?”

Napoleon chuckled as he followed suit, zipping up with a final flourish. “I don’t think most friends would consider that part of their fraternal obligations.” He slid lower in the seat, boneless in satisfaction. “I could murder a cigarette right about now.” His head resting against the back of the seat, rolled over to look at Illya. “I owe you dinner.”

“Aren’t you supposed to take someone to dinner _before_ you have sex with them?”

Napoleon smiled. “You and I just had sex.” He shook his head. “Never thought I’d hear those words coming out of my mouth.”

“Speaking of things coming out of your mouth,” Illya said, as he took the handkerchief from Napoleon’s hand and wiped a stray, pearly spot off his partner’s chin. He dropped the soiled material back in Napoleon’s lap and said, as casually as he could, “Can we go now?”

“Mm-hm,” Napoleon replied lazily, sounding like he was on the verge of sleep.

Due to their activities, the windows had steamed up. Before starting the car, Illya wiped clean an area so he could see to drive. He put the car in gear and pulled back onto the road to resume their journey.

Napoleon drifted into sleep as Illya drove, which suited him fine. He was grateful to have some quiet time to himself, just to think, to consider the possible consequences of their actions. He wasn’t really sure how to feel about what had just happened. Despite trying to isolate himself emotionally, over time he’d come to care for Napoleon, perhaps more than he dare admit. He wasn’t sure where they went from here, how, or if, it would affect their partnership. Could they carry on as if nothing had happened, or would the specter of this night always haunt them? What if Napoleon wanted to do it again?

What if he didn’t? 

Beside him, Napoleon snuffled loudly and his eyes blinked open. He sat up, glancing at Illya and grumbled, “You woke me with your thinking.”

“I’m sorry,” Illya said. “I’ll try to think quieter.”

The silence between them stretched out, until Napoleon said, “I have something to confess to you.”

Illya waited and when Napoleon seemed reluctant to proceed, he prompted, “Well?”

Napoleon turned to look at him. “When I said I had fantasies, that was true. What I didn’t say was… you may have been a part of them. A major part of them.” He cocked his head from side to side. “Mostly part of them.”

“Me?” Illya took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at Napoleon.

“Yes.”

“You fantasize about me?”

“Don’t make me say it twice.” He studied Illya’s profile. He was being remarkably calm about this. Napoleon decided to clarify in case Illya had missed his point. “I’m talking about sexual fantasies.”

“I didn’t think you fantasized about me cleaning your weapon for you.”

Napoleon snickered. “Very Sigmund Freud.” Napoleon studied Illya’s face in the moonlight and frowned. “I must say you’re taking this remarkably well. I was worried I’d make you uncomfortable.”

“My lumpy sofa makes me uncomfortable, Napoleon. You couldn’t.” He gave Napoleon one of his gone-in-a-second smiles.

“I’ll never understand why you don’t buy a new one,” Napoleon said quietly.

“Sometimes, you become used to something, like an old pair of worn slippers. And despite the odd quirk, you still like having it around,” Illya replied just as quietly and with a hint of warmth in his tone, that Napoleon felt was somehow directed at him.

Napoleon took a moment to digest Illya’s cool reaction to his revelation. He’d taken a risk in telling Illya the truth, but Napoleon didn’t want to keep secrets from him; he’d kept this one long enough. The stakes were high, but Napoleon was lucky when it came to gambling.

Sometimes, life was all about taking risks.

Napoleon sat back to face the front, his fingers drumming on the seat beside him. He sniffed and shuffled closer to Illya. “How long before we get back to the hotel?”

Illya glanced at the dial of his luminous watch. “About thirty minutes. Why?”

Napoleon dropped his hand rest on Illya’s thigh, his fingers sliding over to caress the inseam of his pants. He gave a quick squeeze of the flesh beneath his fingers. “The drug hasn’t left my system, yet. Make it in twenty minutes and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Illya’s eyebrow rose as he glanced over at Napoleon. Napoleon, his hand still resting on Illya’s thigh, gave him a cheeky wink.

Illya shook his head and smiled to himself as he pressed the pedal hard to the floor.

**The End**


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